


The Living Fire

by valis2



Category: Riptide (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drama, M/M, Poetry, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-04-07
Updated: 2010-04-07
Packaged: 2017-10-08 22:03:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,138
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/79954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valis2/pseuds/valis2
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The <i>Riptide</i> travels through the fire and is reborn.  Inspired by Oddmonster, who misread a line in an email and thought I was writing poetry about the Riptide vehicles. Which made me want to write poetry about the Riptide vehicles.  This is an experiment!  This is very strange!  Read at your own risk!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Living Fire

You can call me Mary, if you wish.

Men say I'm cursed, haunted, but they do not understand what they do not understand. I am

boards and glue,

glass and paint,

rope and engine. I am the air above me and the water beneath me, I am a safe harbor, escape, sanctuary, frail toy perched on a swelling wave. I am an ocean breeze with the flower of clouds blooming in the sky. I am a poem written in foam, a floating heart, a knife blade cutting through the water. I deal death from the port side, and epiphanies from starboard. My past is a tale told best in flowing script on whalebone.

There is no one alive who remembers me as I was in my first days, proud, teeth bared to the ocean. A new thing, sawdust on my deck. Adventure called to me, its voice like a siren, misty and sultry and languid like old syrup. I rode the swirling current in a faraway sea; I saw the world.

My tale is a strange one. Too soon it grows harsh.

I knew real lanterns, once. I learned the bite of fire. Who among you knows the taste of flames? Who has felt such a thing? I was nearly dragged down,

losing myself amid the pop and hiss of heat,

amid the blackening scorch, the dark plumes of smoke. Underneath, clear and lovely, the water rested, serene and unmoved by my plight.

I could not escape. Not hull, nor steps nor deck; given over to the hungry orange tongues.

I dove into my secret heart. Here I might be safe. Here I might escape.

I might have gone too far into myself.

I might have gone into the fire.

I might have touched it, far too deeply, might have given myself to it, might have seen myself twisted and scattered into the dark. I can't be sure. Time is an illusion off starboard; it looks like a whale striking the water. Or perhaps it is a bird, dwelling in the wind. I would have done anything to not be consumed. I would have done anything to keep my heart.

I remember the spaces in between, the blank white

slate grey

dull blue.

I remember the lock on the shed. The suffocating black. The rough rasp of sandpaper on my hull. Deep within myself, the pieces fracturing and slipping away. Nothing but black, suffocating black. Char and ash. Boards pried from my deck; the smell of paint. What I have left, I hide. I bury. My light is only a flicker, a pale wan thing.

The kiss of the ocean is what awakens me at last. A call

of a gull,

heat of the sun,

men's voices.

I am here, but I am not whole. There are gaps and whorls. There is an island of rotting seaweed. Broken glass. Something is missing. But I am there, on the water, and there is something stirring within me. The spirit of power, raw and scalding, heavy in my hull. Something hot and razor-sharp.

I am taken on a voyage of death. Men, bound and thrown overboard. Something old and primal; something wild, writhing within me. Here is death, given over my port side, blossoming in the water. It tastes like mercury. I am Mary, risen from flames, and I am the flames, I am from the blackness and dark of confinement. I have seen death, and it is easy. Heat is like a wave, rushing over me, lithe and blood-colored.

Men restrain me with rough-hewn lines.

I change hands, and it is simple, the anchor does it for me, drags the new hands down to the depths. I am left alone, rocking quietly in the waves. The flames recede. I am myself again, for a little while, until hands take me again. The word Thomas is painted on my port side. A mistake. It takes only a little push, a bit of a shove, and then I feel it again, the flames, the darkness, all of the violence pouring forth like a fountain inside.

Curse. Cursed. Haunted. But I am something else. There is no word which can explain the song in my heart. I am Venus, astride the foam, and I am Kali, dancing on the skulls. I am on fire. Again and again I strike, and the dark-sparked fire within my heart will not be tamed. I am splintered and I splinter.

Again and again I am returned to the cursed shed. I strike out at those closest; he falls. His son fears me. He will not enter the shed after dark.

I slumber. I dream a new dream, a dream of a sheltered bay, of the sun and the wind. I dream of the stars and the ocean at rest. I dream of thick, lazy waves that rock me to sleep.

A new day. The shed is filled with light. These hands are different. These hands touch with reverance, with excitement. There is a golden flame and a dark flame, but they do not consume. They do not singe. They are something for which I have no word.

The golden flame approaches from the starboard. Clever hands. He is like sunshine, like a quick breeze. The dark flame is cautious. He rubs at my flaking paint and worries.

New paint,

and new wires,

new cushions,

noisy things that squawk and beep.

The dark flame tries to find my secret heart. He looks in every crack and crevice, pulls apart walls, examines every board. The golden flame does not need to look.

The ocean. I am buoyed by my hull, still strong. I am here. My name is not Mary but it is.

There is a cooling rain. It touches my deck, the new cushions, traces patterns on my railings. There is a soft light on the horizon. The ocean is soothing and I am here, and I can feel the change growing inside of me. I am lit from within, translucent. The twin flames are radiant together. In my secret heart they dwell, the power between them so bright that I am nearly blinded. There is no room for my flames; they have withered and fallen to ash. There is nothing left from my life before. I feel them, so close together that I cannot tell where one begins and one ends. They twist around each other like eels.

In the dark they whisper to each other. Every word is a word of power, a word of healing, each word bringing me a shard of myself. My heart pulses with something new, something I have never felt before. I will keep their living fire within me. I will draw them close, protect them with my hull and my boards and my paint. I will be whole again.


End file.
